David Dondero Bio

I recently called up Dave to relieve the boredom on a three day drive
across the bottom of the United States to return a prodigal hire car.

“So you’re in Texas on the I-10?” he wanted to know, “What junction are you at?”

“Um, give me a sec,” I hadn’t been paying attention but the road was
straight and clear enough for me to consult the GPS, “I’ve just passed
the exit to highway 118.”
“That means you’ve gone through Van Horn.”

“Maybe?…Yes!” I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was, “How the hell did you…?”
“..Oh man there’s a water hole you gotta stop at,” he said, “Fresh
springs at Balmorhea. Break up the drive. Freshen up. Just cannonball
right in there.”

David Dondero has road maps tattooed on his brain. He is a true
prophet of the highways of America. Most importantly they are the veins
that connect him to the next show. He doesn’t take them for granted.
He’s run ruts in them, relentlessly back and forth over the years,
through prairies and mountain ranges, and he’s got sermons memorised for
most stretches. I know he’s tried settling down and seeking what some
would call a ‘normal life’ (bar-tending in San Francisco, laboring in
NY) but the road keeps luring him back. He wakes me at 9am in a Super 8
motel after a really late show in Fredericksburg VA and says, “Come on
man, I gotta get outta this place. I’ve got ramblin fever.” He tours
more than anyone I’ve ever met, or heard of.

My story with him started a decade ago, on my first tour overseas,
when I’d been invited to play a show in Omaha, Nebraska. Dave was on the
bill too; we were both booked to play in the front room of a shambolic
house that held regular shows called Hotel Frank. He came down to the
basement and introduced himself and his girlfriend while I was fetching
my guitar out of it’s case to tune it. They were driving around together
and sleeping in the back of his truck, mostly outside of the towns
under the stars. His face looked like it had broken off Mt Rushmore.

I played and then he played. Drunken kids were sprawled around
drinking out of super-sized red plastic disposable cups. They were
reverentially listening to his songs, and quietly singing along with the
ones they knew. I sat still too with the growing excitement of a music
fan discovering something new. It was folk; I recognised the chord
progressions and melodies but together with the words and stories, sung
with such verve and urgency, they were bursting at the seams. It was
equal parts razor-sharp narrative and travelogue, and free-flowing beat
poetry, name-dropping American states and towns like a Kerouac novel.

After the show the party kicked up a notch and Dave and I chatted for
a while in the corner and suddenly from the other room came shouting
and then a scream and people rushing past us. Out on the lawn in front
of the house a fierce melee between local rival gangs had broken out;
fists flying and even baseball bats. One of our revelers had shouted
something dumb at them and now the brawlers attention had turned towards
us in the house. Windows were being smashed and people running
everywhere. We looked out the window to see it go down and then some
creep (strangely wearing surgical gloves) pulled a handgun from under
his t-shirt.

“Holly shit,” yelled Dave, “Come up this way.” I grabbed my banjo and
vaulted up the stairs and we hid in a cupboard and cowered until the
Police arrived and things calmed down. It’d be hard not to form a bond.

Weeks later I returned home with a bunch of Dave’s albums and they
fast became part of my regular soundtrack. Our paths would cross from
time to time on US tours and we’d play songs for an hour or so in
parking lots. Later still we did tours just the two of in his car, and I
got to see first hand the locations for some of his songs. We’ve shared
hotel rooms and I’d witness him drunk and exhausted after shows tapping
out words onto his computer, for hours and hours, good stuff too, and
I’d envy that direct connection he has with his muse compared with my
pedantic cautiousness.

In 2005 I brought him out to Australia to tour with me and it went
badly with Dave ending up in hospital with pneumonia after a drinking
binge, being found cowering in pain in the doorway of Polyester Records
in Melbourne by the clerk opening up for work one morning. He’s been at
me to bring him back ever since to redeem himself.

Just a month ago I met Jolie Holland backstage at a festival and she
said, “So you’re the Darren Hanlon from the Dave Dondero song?” I coyly
nodded and she was truly excited, and I didn’t have to do anything, just
be mentioned in his song. He’s a musicians musician. He’s been my meal
ticket in the US enough times now, just because we’re buddies.

And yes, there’s a song that mentions me… it’s on this album we’ve
sent you (Wherever you go There you Are). And before you think me an ego
maniac for releasing an album that praises me, it did cross my mind as
the only reason not to put it out. But really, I’m flattered, and it’s
no reason you shouldn’t hear all these songs. As a fan I think this his
best album yet.